Memory of Fire
by extraonions
Summary: When a lidérc sinks its claws into Dean, his memory of past events becomes twisted and confused.  He sets out for revenge on the person he sees responsible for the death of his mother... John Winchester.  Written for the evil!Dean ficathon on LJ.


**Memory of Fire**  
By: Extra Onions

**Spoilers:** Shadow, Asylum, and the Pilot  
**Warnings:** Language, violence, non-consensual sexual situations.

**Notes:** Written for the evil!Dean ficathon on LJ. While I tried for as much accuracy as possible in regards to Chicago and its subways and other locales, the people and events are entirely fictional. Special thanks to early readers **nativestar** and **girlfan1979** for their comments.

* * *

_Chicago, Illinois_

_One week post-Shadow_

So far as Dean can tell, springtime in Chicago is synonymous with 'damp and dreary'. The city has history, layers and layers of it embedded deep down to the very bricks and mortar making up the oldest sections of the city. While Dean appreciates the undeniable sense and scope of it, and can feel the echoes of its grandeur lapping against his skin like the ocean, he's desperate for some sunshine.

Sam is scoping out the "L", the elevated train system that is part of Chicago's massively sprawling transportation system. Dean flat out refuses to step foot in one of the things, citing a deep and personal love for the earth and _staying on the freaking ground, Jesus, Sam!_ That leaves Dean to try his luck on the regular subway lines.

It's their usual gig; they're searching for a monster, some kind of supernatural predator. Sam's the one to notice the hunt, bored stiff and itching for a new job while they hole up in the dingy little motel room they switched to after Dad left, both of them dancing uncomfortably around sore subjects such as the daevas and that bitch Meg while waiting for the most visible of their wounds to heal. It's just Dean's bad luck that Sam would find them one _here_ instead of halfway across the country. Personally, Dean can't wait to see the Windy City from the Impala's rear-view mirror.

The city is full of memories now, most of them unpleasant. Except for Dad. Dad is alive, still kicking ass and taking names, and while it doesn't erase the pain of being left high and dry when Dad ditched him without a word of explanation, Dean's so damn glad to see him, to know he's more than a disembodied voice over a phone; a set of coordinates, that it almost doesn't matter.

There's something here, in Chicago, preying on the lines of the Chicago Transit Authority at night. Whatever it is seems to target young men in their mid to late twenties, men either riding on or involved with the subway, though there isn't any other common factor that Sam can discern. The victims just… go crazy. Violent. Most end up attacking, even killing, friends and family members before ultimately committing suicide.

There was a cycle, a pattern spanning decades, which the casual observer wouldn't see. Some of the incidents dated at least as far back as World War I, when the old local railways first consolidated into what was then called the Chicago Surface Lines. The railway system has grown and changed, expanding both below and above ground, but whatever this thing is, it's flourished along with the subways.

Sam thinks they could be looking for a demon, maybe one that possesses its victims, using their bodies to kill before abandoning them to face their actions. Dean's not so sure, but with nothing else to go on and no entries in Dad's journal with other ideas, he's willing to go with it for now.

Dean drops twenty bucks from his recent pool winnings on one of those seven-day unlimited visitor passes and shuffles past the turnstile. He's got a Kel-Tec P-32 in a concealed holster, and in his pocket, three extra magazines of consecrated iron-and-silver .32 ACP rounds, hunter-style. Dean's also got a giant bag of peanut M'n'M's, his EMF meter, a Zippo, a bottle of blessed Aquafina, and Sam's video iPod, which he swiped while his brother was taking a shower. Dean plops down onto a seat midway down the train carriage, trying out his best charming smile on the on the long-limbed beauty sitting facing him across the aisle. She half-smiles but then turns back to her novel without a second glance. With a good-natured shrug, Dean scrunches himself down further against the seat, tired old vinyl squelching a little beneath him, and resigns himself to what may be a very boring evening.

* * *

A few hours later, Dean is out of his skull from sheer boredom. He can only listen to Sammy's whiny emo-music for so long before he wants to drive spikes through his skull to dull the pain, and he knows to worry when he can actually guess 9 out of 10 of his brother's dumbass songs on the Music Quiz, which ceases to be diverting about a half-hour after he discovers it. Playing Pac-Man is better, but it wears down the batteries on the iPod too fast and he has to stop. But man, Dean _wasted_ those creepy little ghosts. 

He's changed lines twice, working his way through the Blue and Orange before settling into the Green Line. It's a refreshing change of pace, as it never goes underground like the rest. Dean's able to watch the passing scenery out the window, buildings going up forever; streaks of overcast light, and can almost pretend he's sitting in the Impala with Sam at the wheel. Better by far than the endless monotony of the underground tunnels.

Thus far, Dean's seen nothing out of the ordinary—well, not true, he's seen plenty out of the ordinary on this subway ride from hell… like, that guy (girl? Who knew?) with the pink Mohawk and fishnet stockings and the stiletto heels wasn't exactly normal. Or that goth chick on the Blue Line tying cherry stems into knots with _only her tongue_, God, Dean would love to get a piece of that action. But nothing supernatural-strange. Just people-strange. There's nothing that sets off the EMF meter, certainly, or Dean's own finely tuned awareness of when something isn't right, developed over years of hunting.

That's why it's a surprise when the thing they are hunting approaches him.

It looks like a man, mostly. Well enough to pass, Dean thinks, though not without drawing a certain amount of attention. Well-groomed and expensively dressed, the creature's dark suit probably costs more than Dean could get for the entire contents of the Impala's truck from a good black-market arms dealer. Its tall, elegant build draws the eye, and the dichotomy of the sharp, too-pale features and too-dark hair keeps Dean's gaze there.

Despite himself, Dean is fascinated by this creature. He stands to meet it, easily balancing on the balls of his feet despite the subway's lurching motion, only peripherally aware that the EMF meter is finally squealing out in belated warning. Dean thumbs the power off, and waits, his eyes locked on the creature's purposeful approach.

"Got a light?" the thing asks, leaning close, its whiskey-smooth voice sending both alarm bells and a wave of shocking desire through Dean.

As if in a dream, Dean feels his hand moving towards his pocket, bringing out his Zippo and holding the resulting flame steady under the creature's proffered cigarette. Dean shakes his head a little to clear it. He feels strange; mind disassociated from his body in a way that usually signals the end of a bad hunt and powerful drugs. Morphine-like. The thing takes a long drag, smoke billowing out of its mouth as it exhales. Caught by the creature's piercing gaze, Dean feels the beginnings of a pounding headache pulse through him, as something _other_ skitters around the edges of his mind.

"Your name?" it asks, mildly, traces of an unfamiliar accent obvious in its voice. The pressure on Dean's mind increases.

"Dean. Winchester." Dean's unwilling answer is forced out past clenched teeth. He glares at the creature, angrily fighting whatever whammy the thing has put him under. "What the fuck are you?"

"Lidérc," it replies silkily, "not that it matters to you, hunter."

The creature—lidérc, Dean corrects himself—takes another drag from the cigarette and makes a lazy, sweeping motion with its other hand. Dean senses the change before he realizes what has happened, the way the rest of the train's passengers have frozen, faded somehow from Dean's awareness until only the lidérc remains in sharp focus.

"What'd you do to them?" Dean barks, taking in the too-still passengers with barely concealed panic. Although the subway is still moving, still hurtling along its track, there is no movement from within the compartment itself. No sound; Dean can't even hear the other passengers breathing.

A portly man two seats down is caught in the act of eating a meatball sub, the sauce dripping from the sandwich arrested mid-drip. Everywhere Dean looks, the passengers are trapped in the midst of some kind of movement. It's fucking creepy, like being in some kind of goddamn wax museum. _Some kind of psychic thing, maybe_. "Are they… frozen? Or is this in my head?"

"A little bit of both," the creature replies with a light chuckle. "They won't notice what we do here. And you and I? We will have all the time in the world."

'Yeah?" Dean's reaching for his Kel-Tec P-32, fierce grin lighting his features. "Good. Then it won't disturb them when I do this." He whips out the pistol and fires off a shot, his aim steady and true. The lidérc doesn't move, though it raises an ironic eyebrow at Dean's gun. It waits calmly as the bullet moves towards it, seemingly slower than it should—and Dean feels the first prickle of unease along his spine. Maybe the thing is immune to bullets. Still—it might not be expecting his thrice-blessed iron and silver rounds. _Worth a try._

At the last moment, the lidérc turns neatly to the side, allowing the bullet to pass by harmlessly. Dean's disbelief quickly turns to horror, his eyes instinctively mapping the trajectory of the bullet. It's heading straight towards a tow-headed boy standing on the seat next to his harried-looking mother, his small body frozen in the act of pointing out the window. Dean takes in the gap-toothed grin, the rumpled denim overalls and striped shirt, and cries out a useless warning; lunges forward with the damning pistol still in his grip. The lidérc is there first, catching him up in a powerful grip.

"NO!" Dean shouts, cursing and struggling against the lidérc's hold, sick with the realization that his bullet will reach the little boy, and that he is powerless to stop it. The lidérc looks down at him, a slight smile gracing its lips. It tilts its head, considering, as the bullet inches ever closer to the oblivious child.

"Very well," it says, and reaches out effortlessly to grasp the slow-moving bullet mid-air. It holds it up between thumb and forefinger, and looks down at Dean appraisingly.

"You intrigue me, Dean. You want so little for yourself, yet you'd risk your soul for the child of a stranger?"

Relief makes Dean weak in the knees, and he nods, struggling to control his racing heart. _I almost… Jesus Christ, I almost killed that kid. _"Yes," Dean whispers, caught by the lidérc's knowing gaze.

"Put away your gun," it commands, and Dean numbly complies. The lidérc releases its grip upon him, and flicks the spent bullet away as an afterthought. It clatters to the floor and rolls away beneath one of the seats, forgotten.

"Now, _szeretett_," it says, advancing on Dean with a smile that makes his blood run cold. "I have done you a great favor, I think. Time to repay the debt." Its eyes are hungry-dark, mesmerizing, and the planes of its face are predatory. Stumbling back before it, Dean sees long claws on its outstretched hands.

A scream erupts past Dean's lips as the lidérc plunges its claws directly into Dean's temples. He expects blood, instant death, even welcomes it as an escape from the pain, but is disappointed. Dimly, he's aware that the claws are inside his mind rather than his head, a phantom-presence scrabbling at something that transcends the physical.

Within him, there is a tearing sensation, something being ripped away from him. A torrent of sensation sweeps through Dean's body in an overwhelming rush of almost pain-pleasure that feels like riding the edge of long-denied orgasm.

_pain_

_pleasure_

He sways.

_painpleasurepainpleasurepain_

"Deaaaannnn!" Sammy scrambles to a stop next to Dean, who jumps up in alarm as he takes in his little brother's distressed face.

"What is it, Sammy?" Dean asks, stepping up close to Sam and looking around warily in the automatic threat-assessment his Dad's been teaching him to do. He won't ever make the same mistake again, not watching Sam carefully enough, not like with the shtriga. It takes Sam a moment to gasp it out, he's been running hard and he's out of breath.

"There's a… a baby bird. In the grass." Sam wheezes, pointing a ways back to the scrub oaks lining the perimeter of the trailer park in a messy half-circle.

"Aw, squirt, it's probably just looking for a worm," Dean says, relaxing once he realizes there was no danger.

"No, Dean. It's hurt! There's blood all over its wing and I think it might be _dead_." Sammy's voice is hushed, a mix of little-boy anguish and morbid fascination.

"Sammy…" Sam's face is pinched tight in misery, but his eyes are on Dean are trusting, full of faith that Dean will know what to do. Dean sighs and ruffles Sam's hair comfortingly. "OK, Sammy, lead the way. There may be nothing we can do, though."

It's not dead. Dean's terrified to even touch the poor bird, small as it is, but he can't just leave it there. He knows from school that bird moms won't come back for the baby if a person has touched it, but he doesn't see a nest anywhere. He's not sure he really believes that anyway, even if Mrs. Podacter is really smart and pretty and smells nice, because Dean's sure his Mom would have come back for him and Sammy no matter what. Maybe it's different for birds.

He sends Sam back to the trailer for a shoe box to carry it in, and they fill up the bottom with bits of grass and half a box of shredded Kleenex that Sam brought too so 'the poor birdie can have something soft, Dean'. Then Dean sets the bird down in the box carefully, trying not to jostle it too much.

They bring it back to the trailer, and Dean sets Sam to watch it until Dad gets back, perched awkwardly on the stool next to the fold-down kitchen table. Sam gives the bird drops of water from his fingertips and croons nonsense words to it in a soothing litany. Dean hopes it lives.

When Dad comes home and takes in the scene, Dean holds his breath, hoping and dreading his father's reaction in equal measure. John Winchester is not a sentimental man, but he's not unreasonable either.

"Huh. Looks like it's time you boys had a lesson," John comments, thoughtfully scrubbing at his five o'clock shadow.

"Dad?" Dean looks up at his father, eyes silently pleading with him to make things right.

"Sammy, you still got that old popsicle stick collection?" Dad continues, smiling a little at Sam's confused 'yessir'. "Go get it. Let's see if we can do some first aid here, OK?"

He's barely done speaking before Sam zips away with a joyous whoop. Dean smiles in relief, and says quietly, "Thanks, Dad."

Dad doesn't answer, but he rests a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezes it lightly.

_painpleasurepain_

_**No… that's not how it was. Remember?**_

_pleasurepainpainpain_

When Dad comes home and takes in the scene, frowning, Dean holds his breath, a feeling of sick dread warring inside with half-hearted hope. John Winchester is not a sentimental man, but he's not always cruel.

"Huh. Looks like it's time you boys had a lesson," John comments, hands resting on hips.

"Dad?" Dean dares a glance at his father, eyes silently pleading with him. He's not sure for what.

"Sammy, what have I told you about pets?" Dad continues, shaking his head at Sam's mumbled apologies. "Dean. I expect better from you. There's no place for sentimentality in this family," he scolds. Dean mutters 'yessir' and offers to take the bird back outside.

"No, I don't think so," Dad says, his mouth a thin line of disapproval. "A man has to take responsibility for his actions, boys. Never forget it." He pauses, studying their faces. "Something hurt like this can't survive on its own. Man's gotta know when it's time to put something—or someone—out of their misery." His eyes are hooded, faraway. "Did it myself a time or two in 'Nam."

Sam's not really listening, trying to get the bird to take more water, still making those _stupid_ cooing noises at it. Dean thinks he's going to be sick right there on Dad's shoes, but he struggles to keep his face blank, emotionless.

Dad looks straight at Dean and says softly, "I'll give you a choice. One of you does it, and the other one buries it." Dean shudders; swallows.

"Sammy. Go get the shovel, and find a nice place for the bird, OK?"

"But Dean, the birdie's still alive," Sam argues.

Dean closes his eyes in despair. "Yeah, I know, Sammy. But the bird's sick, OK? Really sick. And we're gonna have to take care of it the right way, give it a nice burial."

Now Sammy's crying a little, but something in Dean's somber face must have given him pause, because he doesn't argue again, just starts slinking away to follow orders. He stops at the door, looks back. "Can we use salt and the matches and say stuff in Latin?" he asks, small-voiced.

"Yeah, kiddo. Salt and everything," Dean promises, trying not to see the satisfied look on his father's face.

Dean waits until he's sure Sam's away before approaching the open box. He stares down at the trembling bird, steeling himself. "Dad, I…."

"Best make it quick, Dean." His father is implacable.

Dean nods, trying hard not to cry when he wraps his hands over and around the little bird's head and beak, tightening his grip. It's a long, hard eternity in hell before its struggles weaken, then cease. Dean releases the bird's warm body back into the box; runs a shaky finger along its soft, soft feathers.

"And have you learned something today, Dean?" Dad asks, resting a hand on Dean's shoulder.

Dean looks down at his hands and says quietly, "Yes, sir."

His father doesn't respond, but the hand pressing down on Dean tightens painfully.

_painpleasurepain_

Other memories, years' and years' worth, are floating past Dean like so many soap bubbles in the wind, snatched at by greedy hands.

He's a small boy, chasing after them. Spinning and leaping and lunging in a dizzying dance, but Dean can't catch them. Not a single one.

They burst and rain down on Dean like acid, burning, changed.

_**Yes, like that. More. I want everything you are, Dean Winchester. **_

_painpainpainpleasure_

_**Everything.**_

_pleasurepainpleasure_

When awareness returns, Dean is leaning into the lidérc's shoulder, his harsh panting sobs muffled by its shoulder. One of the lidérc's clawed hands cups the back of his neck while the other is a warm weight at his hip.

"Shhhhh…" it soothes, the lidérc's claws lightly stroking the nape of his neck. Dean is shuddering against it. Shock, he thinks.

There's something missing in him, something missing _from_ him. He doesn't know what, just senses the absence. And… there's a fire in his blood, something dark whispering through his veins like poison. "What… what… did you take from me?" he's struggling with the words, vainly protesting the closeness, the burning, and the loss.

"Nothing you will miss, hunter," the lidérc replies, tilting Dean's chin up to meet his gaze. "Nothing you need." His eyes are dark, with the weight of eternity behind them. Dean quavers inside himself, feeling rather like a bird caught before a menacing snake, knotted up in a mess of fear and desire and a strange, hypnotic calm.

"Here."

The lidérc is pressing its cigarette, still smoldering slightly, to Dean's lips, which part effortlessly and without thought for its questing fingers. He takes a drag automatically, aware but not really reacting to the smoke in his mouth and burning at the back of his throat as he inhales. Tears sting in his eyes and a wave of dizziness overcomes him. The creature smiles and carelessly drops the cigarette at its feet, crushing it as the lidérc steps forward. It leans into Dean's body and claims his slack mouth for a soul-wrenching kiss. Dean struggles briefly, but slowly stills as the liderc's poweragain washes over him, pressure and heat and nightmare-need. Desire and dread war within Dean, and he moans, helplessly ensnared. The lidérc bites down, and blood pools in Dean's mouth, the copper tang of it mixing unpleasantly with the bitter taste of ashes.

The lidérc presses him back down into the cracked vinyl of the subway seat. Cool lips brush a kiss against his forehead, plunging his body into a forced lassitude. He yearns for sleep, feels it creeping up on him like a welcome, familiar lover. Dean doesn't resist, though he knows he should be fighting off the creature, trying to kill it. He can't.

"_Szia_, Dean. You will see me again," the lidérc promises, turning away from Dean with barely a whisper of sound. As he sags against the metal frame of the seat, hand clutching the railing weakly, Dean's last sight of the lidérc is of it threading its way through unmoving bodies of the still-frozen compartment. Then weariness overtakes him, and he spirals down into darkness.

* * *

Awareness returns slowly. Dean feels the vibration of the moving train underneath him. His body is slumped sideways against the seat, face pressed to the window as the outside world rushes past in a blur of color and light and motion. He feels strange, hot and shaky like it's been too long since he last ate, though the thought of food turns his stomach. Dean sits up slowly, gingerly, running a hand through his sweaty hair, glancing around at the compartment, which is much less crowded than he remembers. Something happened; there was someone… _something_ that asked for a light…. Dean shakes his head. He can't remember what happened next, just a hazy recollection of overwhelming fear and sensation and loss. Dean glances automatically at his watch. Shit! Several hours have passed; Sam will be pissed that Dean missed their scheduled check-in. 

Dean lurches unsteadily to his feet, ignoring the automatic glances from his fellow passengers. He has to get off this goddamn subway and find Sam. Dean's mouth is bone dry and his head is pounding like the tail end of a five alarm hangover.

He stumbles when the subway train lurches suddenly around a curve, clutching at one of the vertical poles to steady himself. Across the thin aisle, a grey-haired woman is watching him with undisguised suspicion, half brandishing the knitting needles in her hands as a warning to stay away.

There's a cigarette butt among the other detritus at his feet, and Dean stares at it, transfixed. A whisper of memory brushes past him, tantalizingly out of reach. He traces his fingertips to his lips and slides past them to rub at fresh stubble. Dean's frowning thoughtfully at the cigarette, but he doesn't reach down.

After a moment, he sighs and flips open his cell, ignoring the telltale missed call notices in order to concentrate on making his too-clumsy feeling fingers speed dial his brother's number. He presses his forehead against the cool metal of the pole, mindless of the countless smeared fingerprints of those who've come before.

"Sam… it's me."

He listens for a moment, eyes closed, shaking his head slightly against the pole. "Yeah, but… I didn't get it. It did something." Dean pauses; admits in a low voice, "I don't feel so good, Sammy."

Sam's voice rises in urgent inquiry, and Dean lets the comforting sound wash over him for long moments. His brother is home and safety, and his voice is so damn welcome.

"Can't remember," he mumbles in response to the question Sam keeps asking. He can practically see Sam, thrumming with worry as he takes in Dean's weary responses. He smiles a little into the cell.

He tells Sam, "No, I'm on the Green Line, it never goes underground. The next stop… uh…." Dean consults the crumpled schedule from his pocket. "Looks like it's Kedzie Station on, uh, Lake Street."

Dean listens again, alternately shaking or nodding his head even though Sam can't see it.

"No, I'm… yeah, OK. Yeah, I'll wait for you."

* * *

It's a little past dawn and Sam's frantic with worry when he tumbles out of the subway and onto Kedzie Station. The relief at finally hearing from Dean after his brother missed a check-in and not responding to Sam's increasingly urgent voicemails was short-lived. He'd been half the city away from Dean when he picked up his brother's call, and the interminably long wait to reach Dean made him feel frustrated and helpless. Dean sounded… not hurt, precisely, but somehow not _right_. A little scared and a lot confused. That his stubborn brother would even admit to Sam he wasn't feeling well scared Sam down to his very bones. 

Sam's scanning the crowed station intently, fleetingly grateful to be at least a head taller than most of the milling people, when he catches sight of Dean at last. His brother is leaning against a chain link fence, his eyes closed and his hands entangled into the curls of metal like it's all that's keeping him upright. Sam whispers a heartfelt prayer of gratitude and threads his way over to Dean.

Dean looks up when Sam's shadow passes over him and shoots Sam a weary look. "Hey, Sammy. 'Bout time you showed up, I'm starving." The words are right, but the tone is off, too listless, almost perfunctory.

"Dean, are you alright?" Sam's reaching for Dean, gripped by the urge to check his brother over and make sure he's unharmed.

Dean knocks his hand away impatiently, and straightens. He sounds a little more like himself as he insists he's fine, shoving away from the fence and slinging an arm around Sam's neck as he musses Sam's hair, all big brother bravado and denial. "C'mon, I want pancakes."

Sam frowns as he adjusts his longer gait to match Dean's shorter strides, and if he's taking more of Dean's weight than his brother would willingly admit to, he says nothing. Neither does Dean.

* * *

"… and that's all I remember," Dean says around a mouthful of pancakes. It's little enough, though it's clear to Sam that the thing they are looking for has attacked Dean. Sam feels guilty; it never even occurred to him that _they_ could be targets of the creature. 

"So, it said it would 'See you'?" Sam asks, mulling it over in his head. It didn't bode well for Dean if the creature intended to find him again. Maybe as long as Dean avoided the subway, he'd be safe.

"No, no, not like that. It was something else, some other language. It just sounded like 'See you'," Dean corrects him. "It talked more, but… I can't remember that part. It had some kind of accent, man."

"Yeah?" Sam says; interest piqued. "That could be a lead, if we can track down the language."

Dean nods distractedly and goes back to demolishing his quickly vanishing stack of pancakes.

Sam's watching his brother carefully, looking for any sign that he's unwell. But Dean perked up right after he starts eating, and Sam is eventually forced to concede that Dean's suffered no lasting effects.

"I'm telling you, Sammy, I'm fine. Just needed a good meal," Dean stabs a sausage from Sam's plate with his fork and shoves it whole into his mouth, still talking. "What about you? Any leads?"

Sam shoots Dean a disgusted look and snags a piece of bacon off his brother's plate in retaliation.

"Hey!" Dean gripes, indignant. "Thought I raised you with better manners than that, you bitch."

"You started it, jerk," Sam snaps, kicking at Dean under the table. His brother winces and shoots Sam a reproachful look, and Sam feels guilty—almost. He sets down his fork and looks at Dean. "Nothing on the 'L', but the creature seems to prefer the other subway lines, at least from the pattern I discovered. Only a few of the victims were riding the 'L' when they were attacked."

Dean doesn't respond immediately, staring down at his now empty plate like it holds the secrets of the universe. Sam frowns. "You with me, man?"

"Huh?" Dean looks up, his reverie forgotten. "Yeah, sorry. Go on."

"So nothing on the train itself, but I did track down the latest victim—he's still alive, Dean."

"Really?" Dean's gaze sharpens and he leans forward. "Where is he?"

"St. Stephen, King of Hungary. It's a Catholic church," Sam offers, pushing aside his plate. Dean eyes it thoughtfully, and lifts the half-eaten pancake Sam left behind to his own plate, dripping syrup all the way. Sam makes a face, but is secretly relieved that Dean's appetite is as voracious as always.

Dean shovels another bite into his mouth and this time manages to swallow before asking, "So this guy, he's Hungarian? He a priest?"

"Thomas Gábor, age twenty-two. His grandparents immigrated to Chicago from Hungary during World War II. And no, he's a mechanic, not a priest." Sam sips at his coffee while running through the victim's stats from memory.

"So what's he doing at the church?" Dean asks, rubbing at his forehead as if he's fighting a headache.

"His family's Catholic. They've taken him to the church for… help." Sam makes quotes in the air with his fingers at the word 'help'.

"For them or him? He killed anybody yet?" Dean's face is shuttered.

"No. But… they think he's possessed. They wanted the friar to perform an exorcism," Sam replies.

"Seriously?" Dean raises his eyebrows questioningly. "I thought the Church will only perform exorcisms with the blessing of a bishop."

"Usually that's the case, but…."

"But?" Dean tosses his crumpled napkin down next to his plate, looking at Sam expectantly.

"But, I talked with Pastor Jim, and it just so happens that _this_ friar is a little more than the usual friar."

Dean lets out a low whistle. "Like us, huh? Convenient."

"Very." Sam nods.

"What about the exorcism? I'm guessing it didn't work."

"Yeah. I think we can pretty much rule out a demon at this point. We're dealing with something else."

Dean rubs his hands together. "OK, sounds like we might have to pay Mr. Gábor a visit, huh, Sammy? What do you think? Priests? Journalists? Tax Collectors?"

"Just ourselves, Dean. Pastor Jim's already told Fr. György to expect us."

"Go ahead, dude, ruin my fun," Dean complains. "We haven't done a cool disguise in a while." Sam just rolls his eyes.

Sam slips out of the booth to pay the check just as the waitress stops at their table to offer a warm up on their coffee. She looks tired and careworn, with a plain face and stringy blonde hair pulled into a loose bun, but Dean's chatting with her with gentle good humor, just the same as he would with a prettier waitress. It's one of Dean's more endearing qualities.

When Sam gets back to the table, Dean's leaning back, one arm slung across the back of the seat, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Sam stares at him suspiciously, and says, "Dude, what?" He checks the table, but sees nothing amiss.

Dean looks entirely too pleased with himself. "What 'what', Sammy?"

"Screw you, Dean, I know that look. What'd you do? Lick my fork? Dump Splenda in my coffee, what?"

"Nuh-uh, nothing like that, Sam." A wicked grin splits Dean's face as Sam takes a cautious sip from his mug. "I just spit in it."

Sam chokes, spewing the coffee back into his mug as he sputters, "Damnit, Dean! I don't believe you. You do not fuck with my coffee."

"You're such a girl, Sammy," Dean says, but he's smiling, the first genuine smile Sam's seen since meeting up with Dean at the station, and Sam's irritation fades.

"Twisted, man. You're so twisted." But Sam's smiling now too, and he bumps shoulders with his brother as they amble out of the greasy spoon, signaling that all is forgiven.

* * *

Dean likes the old friar instantly, getting the same sense about him as he always feels around Pastor Jim and the few other men of the cloth that Dean has known and respected over the years. A stout, friendly sort with a thick accent, Fr. György welcomes them eagerly to the old brick church, a soothing place with clean lines and giant stained glass windows. The persistent headache that has plagued Dean the last few hours or so seems to fade the further into the church he walks, trailing slightly behind Sam and the friar as he looks around with interest at the pale marble statues set against the walls. This church, like Chicago, has history… but unlike the greater city, the church's ghosts are quiet ones. 

"Of course most of the congregation has no idea about the, hmm, other services the church sometimes provides, in the way of exorcisms and such," Fr. György says to a serious-looking Sam as he leads them through stately rows of teak-colored pews. "But I helped young Thomas' _nagyanya_, his grandmother, years ago, and she remembers still."

"When did Thomas first start acting strangely?" Sam asks. Dean recognizes the variant to Sam's usual 'interviewing' voice, the one he pulls out when he knows the person he's talking to actually has a clue.

"It must be going on a month now. He's been here about half that time, though I fear for his continued health should we allow him to stay." The friar leads them to a closed door deep within the recesses of the church, which he gestures to. "He's restrained, I'm afraid. The _ördög _that plagues him—that's devil, gentlemen—calls out to poor Thomas. I fear for what he would do were he exposed to the creature again."

Dean and Sam exchange glances. "Do you know what type of creature it is," Sam asks, eagerly.

"I have my suspicions," Fr. György replies, unlocking the heavy door and swinging it open. They step inside. Dean's eyes are immediately drawn by the intricate protective symbols traced in concentric circles around the bed, chalk and salt and some dark powder he's not familiar with, and illuminated at intervals by tall candles. Thomas Gábor is restrained on the bed, apparently sleeping.

"Thomas describes a creature that looks human, but with claws, something about it drawing him as a moth to a flame. It spoke to him in Magyar. There are legends of such creatures from the old country… you say you've found a pattern to the attacks?" the friar asks, glancing between them questioningly.

Sam nods and begins to explain about the subway, sotto-voce. Dean wanders closer to the sleeping man, stepping carefully over chalk lines and the first of three salt rings and passing the many candles set out around the bed in an intricate pattern. He smells a pungent herb, and almost stumbles when he passes through the final ring of the dark powder closest to Thomas Gábor, surprised by the sudden lightness to his body, as if some great weight that has been pressing down on him has been lifted. Frowning, Dean glances at Sam, but his brother is still talking quietly with the friar, his hands a flurry of movement as he speaks.

Looking back towards the man on the bed, Dean sees that Gábor is awake, and watching him warily from hooded eyes. He looks emaciated, like he hasn't been eating well or nearly often enough.

"Hey," Dean says, trying not to startle the man, who is staring at Dean intently. "I know this whole… this whole thing is messed up, uh, Thomas. But we're here to help you, OK?"

"Did _he_ send you?" Thomas croaks, his voice rough.

"Who?" Dean asks, his mouth dry. Thomas goes wild, straining and cursing, spittle flecking his lips as he struggles against the straps holding him down on the hospital-style bed.

"You! You know! You can feel him, can't you? Crawling around in your head, making you do things—feel things—I know!" Thomas cries out, His fist closes around Dean's wrist, tugging him closer. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam surge forward, but he waves him back.

"Let me go, let me go to him!" Thomas pleads. "Please. Can't you hear him calling?" Dean swallows nervously, unease prickling along his skin. "You do!" The man's eyes are mad, crazed. His next words make Dean jerk away from him, dread and revulsion warring in the pit of his stomach. "You're marked. He's marked you, too. I can see." Thomas turns his face away then, sobbing.

Quietly, Dean says, "Get some rest, Thomas. We're going to help you." He backs away from the bed, careful not to disturb the protections set down by the old friar. He doesn't meet Sam's eyes, though he feels his brother's sharp, worried gaze.

_Marked._

"Dean." It's both question and accusation, all at once.

Dean says nothing. He nods once to a thoughtful-looking Fr. György as he passes, not trusting his voice, but always trusting Sam to have his back.

* * *

For dinner, Dean drags Sam to a curbside hot dog vendor a few blocks from the motel. Sam can tell Dean is shaken by what happened at the church, although his brother takes great pains to act as if nothing is wrong. 

"C'mon, Sammy, you can't visit Chicago without trying one of these things," Dean insists. Sam eyes the dilapidated looking cart and its bearded vendor, his greasy apron doing nothing to hide a prominent beer-gut, dubiously. He mutters under his breath about heartburn and antacids, but the charcoal-grilled hot dogs smell great, and breakfast is a faraway memory.

Dean orders two with everything on it. Sam quickly discovers that everything really does mean _everything_; from tomato slices to a giant dill pickle spear that practically dwarfs the hot dog by comparison. Sam can't begin to imagine how Dean plans to fit one of the things in his mouth, but knowing his brother, he'll find a way.

"Uh, can I just get mine with some ketchup and no pickle?" Sam asks, and is brought up short by the identical hostile glares from both Dean and the guy behind the cart. Sam spreads his hands. "Dude, what?"

"Sam. It's a Chicago Hot Dog." Dean is speaking excruciatingly slowly, as if Sam were all of twelve.

Sam makes a face. "Yeah…. so…?"

"So you don't put ketchup on a Chicago Dog. It's like, sacrilegious, or something." Dean's clutching his own hot dogs—so overrun with tomatoes, peppers, and onions that Sam can't even see the 'dog' part of the equation—tightly to his chest, as if he's afraid Sam's going to snatch them away from him and start squirting them with ketchup any second.

Sam stares at his brother's earnest face, and chances a glance at the vendor, who is nodding adamantly. "Are you serious?"

The grizzled vendor offers, "I gotta bottle of ketchup if you want it, Joe. But you'll have to defile it yourself."

_Defile…?_ Sam's mouth twists into a rueful half-smile. _When in Rome…._ He shakes his head slightly, and says, "That's OK. I'll try it however my brother's having it."

"Raked through the garden," the older man grins, expertly splitting the poppy seed bun and laying in the char-grilled hot dog. Sam watches with interest as he layers on things Sam has never thought to put on a hot dog before, up to and including the celery salt. He takes it gingerly, trying not to let any of the tomatoes fall off the top, and slides a few crumpled bills onto the cart.

"You wanna pop to go with?" the man asks, scooping up the cash and pocketing it.

"No, thanks."

Dean's already wolfed down one of his hot dogs while waiting for Sam, but he brandishes the other towards a nearby bench. They sit and eat in companionable silence, though Sam shoots Dean frequent sideways glances as he tries to find a way to bring up what happened at the church.

Sam has to admit the 'Chicago' dog is damned good.

"Told ya so."

"Shut up, Dean."

* * *

The motel room is small but serviceable, and although Sam is used to some truly questionable decor after so long on the road, they've haven't been in this particular room long enough for the horror of the faded green paisley wallpaper coupled with floral chintz curtains to have worn off yet. 

Although it is still early when they return to the room, Dean crashes on the nearest bed like he hasn't slept for a month, not even checking the salt lines. Worried, Sam moves quietly through the motel, re-laying the lines along each door and sill, and tracing protective sigils on the walls and windows.

It's a restless sleep; Dean tosses and turns and seems to be talking throughout, though Sam can only make out the occasional mumbled word. About two hours later, Dean jerks awake, breathing hard and cursing under his breath before fleeing to the bathroom.

Sam considers going to Dean and feeling him out on what is going on with him—Dean rarely suffers nightmares, and he _never_ forgets the salt—but the sound of the running shower gives him pause.

Sam is finally making progress in his research, spotty wireless not-withstanding. With the information gleaned from Thomas and Fr. György, he is now confident that they are hunting a lidérc, a kind of Hungarian bird-vampire. It probably came across to the states back in the late eighteen or early nineteen hundreds, when Chicago saw a massive increase in Hungarian immigrants. The first confirmed victim was in 1915, and no telling how many there might have been before that.

There didn't seem to be much lore on the creatures, at least not in English, and what little Sam does find often conflicts with the next source. Unfortunately, Sam's grasp of Magyar is nonexistent, and he knows better than to trust vital information about a hunt to Babelfish—Dean is never going to let him live down that embarrassing incident with the _hu li jing_ in San Francisco.

But Dean—Sam is seriously concerned by some of what he has discovered about this type of creature.

By some accounts, the lidérc is a kind of 'miracle chicken', a _csodacsirke_, hatched from an egg, and incubated beneath a human arm. Sam can't help but chuckle at that one, though what the lidérc does, feeding on the memories and essence of its victims, is less than amusing. Others believe the lidérc to be a type of _djinn_, a devil that grants wishes for wealth and power, but ultimately claims payment with the lives of those it helps. The one thing all the tales did have in common about a lidérc is that it's dangerous. It takes the appearance of a devilish lover, much like an incubus, and feeds on its victims.

Dean hasn't said the lidérc attacked him in that way, but… Sam is unsure. As much as Sam would like to tell himself everything is fine, Dean is obviously not himself. Sam shuts the lid of his laptop and settles down to wait.

Sam is fighting sleep when Dean emerges, still damp and clad only in a pair of boxers, scrubbing at his hair with one of the motel's thin hand towels.

"Dean, I've got some info on this thing," Sam says, standing up and stretching. "It's called a lidérc. Sort of a cross between a vampire and an incubus…" His brother grunts but otherwise ignores him, walking past Sam to the chair where they've piled their duffels. Dean drops the towel to the ground carelessly and starts rummaging, pulling out a fresh shirt and a rolled up pair of jeans.

"Dean?" Sam glances quizzically at Dean. "Dude, what're you doing?" he asks uneasily.

"Goin' out," Dean responds flatly, already dressed and sitting on the edge of the nearest bed to lace up his boots.

The prickle of unease dancing along Sam's spine turns into a full-out Macarena.

Dean jumps up and starts pacing. "I just need to be doing something, Sammy. I need out. Feels like I can't breathe in this shit little room. This lidérc-thing's gotta have a place it runs to ground, some kind of hidey-hole. I wanna try the subway again, maybe catch this thing's trail and follow it back to wherever it stays when it's not sucking people dry." Dean's not looking at Sam, his gaze instead darting around the room nervously.

"Dean?" Sam approaches Dean as he might a skittish horse (or an unpredictable ghost), hands spread unthreateningly. His brother seems consumed by a frenetic, restless energy, almost like he's been mainlining caffeine for an all-nighter. "I'm not sure that's a good idea. We need a plan; we need to know how to kill it when we find it." Dean shakes his head and brushes past Sam, checking the contents of his jacket pockets.

"Look, Dean, I'm just saying, we should look at the bigger picture here. This lidérc has taken out a lot of people over the years, and it's already gotten a taste of you. We might need help on this one, you know? We can call Dad, maybe he—".

"Shut up! Shut up about Dad!" Dean shouts, dropping the jacket before lurching sideways and clutching at his head, clearly in pain.

"Dean?"

Alarmed, Sam reaches a hand out towards him, but his brother knocks his arm away, growling, "You think I want to give Dad one more fucking reason to think I'm weak? I don't think so, Sammy." The anger and resentment is clear in his voice.

_Dad?_ Sam tries again, voice calm. "Dean, what do you mean?"

"Do whatever the hell you want, Sam," Dean says as he scoops up his jacket and slings it over his shoulder. "I'm gonna hunt that thing and take the fucker down." Before Sam can so much as protest, Dean is out the door, slamming it hard enough to rock the picture frames littering the faded green walls.

Sam stares at the door for long moments after Dean has left, the Impala's tires screeching as he peels out of the motel parking lot. It's obvious that Dean is compromised, that whatever happened on the subway has affected his brother. _The way he spoke about Dad! _Sam's afraid that Dean might be next in the long string of the creature's victims.

He can't afford to let Dean get too much of a head start before going after him, but… making a decision, Sam picks up his cell and dials. He waits until voicemail picks up and says, "Dad? It's Sam. If you get this… we're still in Chicago. There's something wrong with Dean." He flips open his laptop and pulls up the webpage he'd been reading before Dean's outburst. "I think it might be a lidérc…."

* * *

It doesn't take Dean long to find a bar. It calls to him as he exits the subway, nestled just a block or so away from where he left the Impala, the meter paid up with a swipe of a fake credit card. He's had no luck finding the damn thing that attacked him, though he's been riding the subway for several hours in the hopes of finding and wasting its ass. Several times he thought he felt it somehow, the creature's presence lurking at the edge of his awareness, but he never saw it. He's hungry and angry and feeling a little muddled, and a stiff drink, maybe shooting a few games of pool, is exactly what Dean needs before slinking back to Sam with his proverbial tail between his legs. 

The bar's crowded, but not unpleasantly so. Dean takes in the smoky atmosphere, all dark wood and flashing neon, the garbled milieu of relaxation, laughter, and sexual tension, and relaxes. He makes his way to the bar and claims a stool, rolling his neck back and forth to relieve the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. Dean flashes a smile at the bartender as he orders whiskey on the rocks; a dark, pretty woman just the wrong side of 40, but with a rack a man would have to be blind not to appreciate. Dean tosses down a twenty and asks her to keep it coming.

By his third, Dean feels pleasantly buzzed and has worked his way through several bowls of bar nuts when he feels eyes on his back. The hair along his arms and the back of his neck is standing straight up, instinctive recognition of danger. He stretches casually, tries glancing into the mirror installed above the bar to see behind him. Nothing, or at least nothing out of place. The bar is still milling with people, though it's thinned out a bit in the last half hour or so.

Between one blink and the next, Dean sees him—or rather, it. The lidérc. Tall, as tall as Sammy for sure. Thin build, and sharp-boned features that reminds Dean of some kind of long-limbed bird. An egret, maybe. Dean finds himself transfixed, unable to move away, as the lidérc glides nearer, the crowd parting before it unconsciously. His phone… Dean knows he should try to call Sam, or try to slip away in the crowd. He does neither, remaining motionless while the creature gracefully settles next to him at the bar.

"You! G-get—" Dean's voice falters. His throat unbearably parched, Dean swallows and tries again. Quieter: "Get the fuck away from me."

The lidérc lets out an amused chuff of breath. "How pleasant," it comments. "No." It reaches past Dean to grasp his lowball glass with long, elegant fingers. For a moment, Dean swears he can see the lidérc's razor-sharp claws superimposed over its hand in a ghostly afterimage. "Drink with me, _szeretett_."

"Go to hell." Dean rasps out, glaring.

The lidérc shrugs amiably; all lean muscle and sinews, smiling as it brings Dean's glass to its lips and knocks it back. It signals the bartender for a refill, and then presses the sweating glass into Dean's lax grip, while its other hand closes over Dean's denim-clad thigh. "Drink," it orders.

Dean, dizzy and all too conscious of the warm weight of the lidérc's palm against his upper leg, obeys. Dean is horribly aware of his lips against the rim of the cold glass, resting just where the creature's own mouth just touched. The whiskey goes down smooth and smoky; igniting the fire banked beneath his skin. The lidérc's tongue hungrily flicks out past thin lips and it squeezes Dean's thigh. Desire and revulsion flood through him in equal measure.

"Come," it says, its voice made of night and honey, and Dean is already moving to follow it before his brain catches up to his body. He stops, clutching tightly at the bar with an intense effort of will. The lidérc turns, its dark eyes boring into Dean's. "Come," it repeats, and this time Dean can't resist. His feet are moving on their own accord and there's a buzzing in his ears that has nothing to do with alcohol.

The lidérc leads Dean to the back of the bar, where several pool tables are nestled in darkened corners. Only one is in use, the men playing glancing up briefly when Dean and the lidérc walk past before returning to their game. Dean stumbles to a stop next to a pool table, catching at the ledge for balance. He's lightheaded and a little breathless. His hand surreptitiously reaches for the knife he's got stashed in his pocket, but freezes when the lidérc leans into him and hisses, "No. Remember the little boy?" Dean's hand falls away, and he shivers.

It's taking down two pool cues and chalking them. Dean can't move, can merely watch the lidérc and its lithe movements. He's ensnared, trapped, and though he's raging inside there's seems to be no escape from the creature's whims.

"Play with me. Eight-ball," it says, and tosses a blue-tipped cue towards Dean, which he automatically catches, noticing the perfect heft and balance of it as he does. Unwillingly, he finds himself placing the rack and balls on the table, prepping for a break shot. His hands are shaking as he lines up the shot, his body instinctively falling into the proper position, left foot forward, right foot about two feet back, his torso twisted a little to the left. He breaks, and watches dispassionately as the balls scatter cleanly.

The lidérc is watching, a slight smile on its uncanny features, and murmurs, "Good."

Dean ignores it as best he can, focusing instead on the game, determined to wrest a little control back from the thing. He sinks the fourteen into a side pocket, and sighs a little in relief.

The lidérc is circling the table, coming to rest slightly to the left and behind Dean. Dean tenses, but forces his limbs to relax as he leans into the next shot. Dean's planning to sink another stripe into a corner pocket, but the lidérc's body suddenly brushes against his, and its mouth teases down the shell of Dean's ear, landing warm kisses against the line of his neck. He jerks, and the shot goes wild; scratches. The lidérc is a dark chuckle brushing his cheek, an intoxicating scent wrapping his mind and body in a treacherous fog, and Dean moans, mindlessly baring his throat to its seeking lips.

As before in the subway, the bar has fallen into an unnatural stillness. The background noise has faded and its patrons are frozen: mid-drink, mid-dance, mid-shot. The only sound is Dean's own ragged breathing. Through half-lidded eyes, Dean can see himself in the elongated mirrors lining the bar's dark-paneled walls, flushed and panting, leaning back into the lidérc's dangerous embrace.

"My turn, I believe." But instead of aiming its cue, the thing is turning Dean to face it, pressing him down to the felted surface of the table; manipulating his body as easily as if he was a rag doll. Dean tries to raise an arm to strike out at it, kicks his leg weakly against it, but his limbs are heavy, syrupy, and he's still so caught up in the desire shooting through him from the thing's every touch that he's weak as a kitten. "Bastard. What are you—?" Dean chokes out, pushing at the thing's chest to try to get away.

It's smiling down at him, dangerous, and Dean's vision is suddenly doubled. He can still see the lidérc in its human-looking shell, dark and compelling, mesmerizing. But glowing through the flesh is a nimbus of _other_, somehow avian in its unnatural beauty. Sharp claws are tracing Dean's cheek in a mockery of affection, even as the other clawed hand is deftly working loose his belt, unbuttoning his fly, stroking down and deep and hard against him, and Dean cries out, arching up into the lidérc's hated, welcome touch.

"I am hunger," it says, throatily, hands still working Dean over like nothing he's felt before. "I am your anger and your lust and the dark guilt that eats away at your soul. I'm going to own you, Dean Winchester. And when I'm through with you, you'll know nothing but my voice, my touch." Dean, shuddering in its grip, knows it's true.

"P-please," he gasps out. There's a ball digging painfully into the small of his back, and he thinks desperately of Sam, wishing he'd never argued with his brother, hadn't stormed out of the motel like some kind of a damn fool amateur. It's the kind of stunt his father would have raked him over the coals for, all the while shaking his head mournfully at Dean's failure to live up to his potential, the bastard.

Thinking about the other victims, Dean realizes the lidérc's MO will likely include using him to get to Sam. Goddamnit! The anger and fear clears his head a little, the rush of adrenaline zinging through Dean's veins like the best kind of caffeine hit, and he manages to strike the lidérc, his ring catching against its mouth and drawing a trickle of dark blood. It snarls and slams him against the table, hard, where he collapses, dazed.

The lidérc wipes away the blood with the back of its hand, and says, "Didn't know you like it rough, Dean." It smirks; continues, "Let's see what else you're hiding in that _delicious_ mind of yours, shall we?" as it grips the sides of Dean's face tightly, and rends him with its claws.

Caught between the pleasure and pain of it, Dean writhes and twists under the lidérc, a long wordless cry ripping out of him.

_painpleasurepain_

_pleasurepain_

"Hey, Dad… you sure you want to split up for this one?" Dean asks. There's a smattering of papers pinned to the walls, and strewn across the table; research for the two jobs Dad has lined up, one in California and one in Louisiana. Dean had hoped they could do them together. He suspects Dad is sending him on the voodoo job to keep him away from Sam. It's a kindness, John Winchester style—John knows Dean feels Sammy's absence keenly, like the phantom pain of a missing limb. That close to Palo Alto alone and Dean would find it hard to resist the temptation to visit his brother.

"I'm sure, Dean. Go on now, get going," John says, flashing Dean a crooked grin. "Sooner you get done, the sooner you can join me up in Jericho. Eat some crawfish étouffée for me, would you?"

"Yeah, yeah, OK," Dean surrenders with a chuckle, stretching and making for the door with a casual smile and wave. "I'll bring you some beignets or somethin'."

One month and a disturbing, EVP-laden voicemail later, John has left him behind again, this time maybe forever. Squaring his shoulders, Dean marches to the Impala and sets his sights on Palo Alto… and Sam.

_pleasurepain_

_painpainpainpleasure_

_**He abandoned you.**_

_pleasurepain_

Dean struggles weakly against the creature, trying to form the words to deny it. But he can't. Dad had abandoned him, even if his reasons were valid.

_pleasure_

_pain_

_**Reasons. Are you sure you remember things clearly?**_

_pleasurepainpainpain_

_pain_

"I… Dad… please," Dean protests. There's a smattering of papers pinned to the walls, and strewn across the table; research for the two jobs Dad has lined up, in Jericho and in New Orleans. Dean had hoped they could do them together. Unpleasant and bitter as John can be, most days, he's all Dean has left. But the suggestion raises John's ire and Dean finds himself pushed up against the wall, cursing himself for not realizing the extent John had been drinking before bringing it up.

"You're pitiful, Dean," John slurs. "Weak. Your brother is ten times the man you are, and he's smart enough to know you were only holding him back. That's why he left. Couldn't wait to get away from you."

Dean shudders in John's bruising grip, turning away from his father's alcohol-laden breath. He knows he's a failure, a disappointment to the one person in the entire world Dean wants to be proud of him. He's always been too weak to stomach some of Dad's methods. But the thought that Sammy actually resents him, left because of him, is too much to bear.

"Get out of my sight," John snarls, shoving Dean away from him roughly. "I don't want to see you until you've made a man of yourself. Prove you're tough enough to be my son."

Dean turns and stumbles out the door, vision watery from fighting back tears. He stares down at his hands, chest heaving, visualizing the blood over the years upon them as an angry red stain. Not enough. Never enough for John Winchester. Dean swallows. Squaring his shoulders, he marches towards the Impala, mind already set on the job in New Orleans, and proving himself.

One month and a messy bloodbath later, John has left him behind again, this time maybe forever.

_painpleasure_

_pleasure_

When he comes back to himself, Dean's spread eagled across the pool table, spent and sticky and confused; his rumpled jeans have slid farther down and caught themselves upon his boots. The lidérc is standing over him, wedged up between his legs and smiling down, dangerous. It's licking one taloned hand, while the other loosely holds the eight-ball. "Good game," it grins, and Dean turns his face away in despair.

It captures Dean's face within its grasp and pulls him up for a kiss, claiming him with its mouth. He tastes himself on its tongue, mixed with the lingering echoes of whiskey and blood. Despite himself, Dean again feels a stirring of desire for the thing. He wants to kill it; he wants to die.

Then the lidérc's hands are moving on him, dressing him gently and bringing Dean to his feet. Dean staggers and would have fallen but for the edge of the pool table, and he realizes at that moment that the lidérc has somehow been feeding on him. His memories… the thought surfaces, but is dragged back into the undertow and lost.

Dean shakes his head, confused. Not blood. Not sex, not really, though it's more like an incubus than anything else Dean's ever run across. No, it's something else. Dean feels different inside himself, but he can't place the change.

He's on the verge of figuring it out when the world shifts around him, the bar bursting back into sound and movement so quickly that Dean's knees buckle and threaten to give out. The lidérc moves gracefully, unhurried, to catch him. Pulls him up to its side and walks him towards the exit, effortlessly avoiding the few drunks and bar tarts that haven't packed it in for the night.

"I think my friend has had a bit too much to drink," the lidérc says as he steers Dean past the bar. Dean struggles weakly against it, trying to get away, trying to cry out for help, but his tongue is thick in his mouth and his limbs feel strangely heavy. "Hhhu… hhhh…."

The same bartender Dean spoke to before frowns at them, studying Dean's pale, sweaty face. He's filled with a sudden, painful hope, praying she'll notice something _off_. "He shouldn't be driving," she says at last, tossing a wet towel down to the bar, and Dean sags against the lidérc in defeat.

"Don't worry," it says, and Dean shudders as it flashes its white teeth at the woman, holding up Dean's car keys in a casual wave. "I'll see to him personally."

* * *

Sam's only just returned to the motel room, several fruitless hours of searching for Dean in and around the subways under his belt, when he hears pounding on the door. "Goddamnit, Dean," he mutters, planning on giving Dean an earful for making him worry, especially since his brother wouldn't answer his damn phone. 

He yanks the door open, and is in for a shock. Instead of his brother, Sam is confronted by the sight of his father.

"D—Dad?"

"Sammy." John shoulders his way past Sam, careful not to disturb the salt line, and drops his duffel next to the door. He takes in the room with a glance, and demands, "Where's your brother?"

Sam shakes his head. "He went out after the damn thing. He's been gone for hours."

"And you let him?" John says, disbelief and disapproval coloring his voice.

Sam fights down his instant irritation with difficulty. "I didn't have much of a choice," he shoots back, fists clenched. "I've been out looking for him. He's not answering his phone, which is really unusual." They both hear the unspoken end of the sentence, _for him_, hanging in the air between him like an accusation.

John shifts uncomfortably, and the antagonism slowly bleeds away from his burly frame. "Alright. Alright, let's just focus on Dean for now," he says, and it's a peace offering, or as much as Sam's going to get.

Sam's anger fades as he takes in his father's tired face, still barely healed from the deep bloody gouges inflicted by the daevas and lined with concern for Dean. "OK. Here's what I've got…."

Sam outlines the research he's gathered by the numbers, finishing off by describing what happened to Dean with as much detail as he can. John listens attentively, leaning up against the motel's kitchenette table and asking the occasional question. When Sam's finished, his father stays very still for several long moments, arms crossed over his chest and eyes closed, thinking. Sam doesn't disturb him, used to John's way of processing from long years' experience. Finally, John shifts and opens his eyes.

"If this thing's got a hold of your brother, it's bad news, Sam," John explains. "I made a few calls, found a few things we can use. But a lidérc, it feeds on its victims. Sucks out a piece of their soul bit by bit until there's nothing left. Its touch is like poison, warping the victims's memories until they can't tell what's real and what's not. If that thing's got its claws in Dean, there's no telling what he'll do." John straightens and rests a hand on Sam's shoulder with a brief squeeze. "We don't get this thing soon, there may be nothing left of your brother to save." Sam nods, swallowing.

"What do we do?"

"We find your brother. There's a ritual Caleb told me about, might slow the effects until we can find the thing. But we'll have to kill it to free Dean completely."

"Dad?" Sam waits until John is really looking at him, and says, "Thanks for coming."

John nods.

* * *

Dean doesn't remember the trip through the dimly lit alley to the car, doesn't remember the creature supporting him as it unlocks and opens the door; lays him out across the soft leather of the back seat; slips inside. 

"I've been enjoying you. You're the tastiest morsel I've had in decades." The creature is pressing down on Dean, rocking against him. Dean's barely conscious, trapped in a web of confusion and fear, but his body is warm and willing against the lidérc's, responsive to its every thrust and parry. "Your memories are exquisite. So much pain and guilt and anger there," it continues. "You're barely holding on as it is. Let's see what it'll take to send you right. Over. The. Edge."

It shifts, and a wave of its power rushes over Dean, just as it rakes its claws down his exposed chest, drawing quick swells of blood to the surface. It burns like a poison, burns Dean down in the furthest part of him. The lidérc grins fiercely as it turns those claws to Dean's face; sinks them deep into his mind and flexes.

Dean screams, and is screaming still when the memory of fire engulfs him.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke and others (but not me). No infringement or disrespect intended 


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